


Secret

by MordorIsCalling



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: + 1 time someone understands them, 5 times Jaskier and Geralt use the “secret” language and get away with it, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 2: how Jaskier learns the language, Chapter 3: 5+1, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Foreign Language, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sexual Content, Swearing, no beta we are feral like Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:27:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27819736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MordorIsCalling/pseuds/MordorIsCalling
Summary: At the beginning, it was just a way of venting about his frustrations concerning the bard.“Musi mieć nierówno pod sufitem.”He must be soft in the head, Geralt says to Roach quietly as he brushes her mane. He glances over his shoulder, looking at Jaskier sitting by the fire and strumming his newly-acquired elven lute. “Nikt o zdrowych zmysłach nie chciałby pisać o mnie pieśni.”Nobody in their right mind would want to write songs about me, the witcher scoffs in an old language which he’s sure the young bard won’t understand.As years pass, it becomes a safe way to tell Jaskier how he feels. Jaskier doesn't know what he's saying anyway... until one day, he does.Based on artistsfuneral's take on the prompt "love confessions: in a language you didn't know they understand".
Relationships: Background Lambert/Aiden, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 147
Kudos: 994





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is just me playing with the lovely idea that artistsfuneral came up with on tumblr - Geralt speaking Polish while talking to Jaskier, assuming that Jaskier doesn't understand. Here's the link to their fic: 
> 
> https://artistsfuneral.tumblr.com/post/635967101194174464/love-confessions-in-a-language-you-didnt-know
> 
> Please go and give them love if you're on tumblr! 🥰
> 
> Hope you enjoy 💕

At the beginning, it was just a way of venting about his frustrations concerning the bard.

“Musi mieć nierówno pod sufitem.” _He must be soft in the head_ , Geralt says to Roach quietly as he brushes her mane. He glances over his shoulder and looks at Jaskier, who's sitting by the fire and strumming his newly-acquired elven lute. “Nikt o zdrowych zmysłach nie chciałby pisać o mnie pieśni.” _Nobody in their right mind would want to write songs about me_ , the witcher scoffs in an old language which he’s sure the young bard won’t understand. Roach understands of course, in her own way, and snorts in agreement.

Geralt has lived for many years and has acquired many useful skills during that time. Speaking ancient languages is one of them. Witchers have to learn that particular tongue anyway, as the most reliable bestiaries are written in it. Jaskier, being no witcher, won’t know what Geralt’s talking about, so he can complain all about the bard, even to his face to piss him off.

“Marzę tylko o tym, żebyś zamknął się chociaż na chwilę.” _The only thing I dream of is you shutting up for just a minute_ , he tells the bard after Jaskier asks him whether he has any dreams. It ends up in Jaskier sulking and not talking to him for the rest of the day, so Geralt counts it as a win.

“Daj mi spokój!” _Leave me be!_ He growls at Jaskier as he returns injured to their camp after a hunt. The bard wanted to touch him and look at his wound.

“Zejdź mi z oczu, Jaskier.” _Get out of my sight, Jaskier_ , he grits out, annoyed, after he had to safe the bard from a vengeful spouse yet again.

Jaskier never does. Geralt tells him to go away in all the languages he knows but Jaskier persists. He stays by Geralt’s side through thick and thin, for many years, and Geralt _doesn’t understand_.

“Czego ty ode mnie chcesz?” _What do you want from me?_ he asks as he and the bard drink ale together in some inn. Jaskier holds his gaze for a long moment but doesn’t answer. Two days later, Jaskier helps him bathe after a hunt and hums happily all throughout, as if it actually brings him _pleasure_ to wash monster guts from Geralt’s hair with his delicate fingers. Geralt blurts out, “Nie rozumiem cię.” _I don’t understand you._

Jaskier’s hands stop their movement. “You know what,” he says cheerfully, “I don’t understand what you’re saying but one day, I will.”

Geralt huffs a laugh. “Zobaczymy.” _We’ll see about that._

Few more years pass and Jaskier gives no indication that he’s somehow learnt the “secret” language. Geralt still uses it to rant about the bard (mostly to Roach) but gradually, his irritated words like “Wkurzasz mnie” _You annoy me_ give way to quiet confessions such as “Tęskniłem za tobą.” _I missed you_.

When Jaskier finds the witcher fishing for a djin, he offers to sing Geralt to sleep. He makes Geralt put his head in his lap and starts crooning a lullaby in Elder, running his hands through the witcher’s hair. Sleeplessness starts overtaking Geralt at last but he fights it, just to look up at Jaskier’s face a little longer - his expression is so open, warm and unafraid. Geralt reaches out to touch Jaskier’s cheek and whispers, “Czym ja sobie na ciebie zasłużyłem?” _What have I done to deserve you?_

Jaskier only chuckles and sings on. The following day, they go to Rinde and make friends with the infamous sorceress who resides there. Yennefer gifts Geralt with a potion that helps the witcher with his insomnia. On some occasions, he allows himself to ask Jaskier to sing to him anyway.

Geralt and Jaskier continue travelling together and the witcher watches his bard companion grow – his clothes get more distinguished, his verses become more sophisticated and artful. Jaskier holds himself with confidence, a magnetic charisma that draws everyone in. Yet, he still chooses Geralt’s company with all the discomforts and hardships of the Path. It weighs down on Geralt, how much better Jaskier could be doing away from him, how selfish he is to want this extraordinary man to remain with him.

“Jesteś taki piękny.” _You’re so beautiful_ , Geralt murmurs, gazing at Jaskier cast in the orange glow of the bonfire. His blue eyes reflect the firelight with a myriad of colours and Geralt can’t look away.

Jaskier smiles but says nothing.

When they’re about to separate for winter that year, Geralt can’t hold it in anymore. The bard babbles excitedly, sharing his plans for the upcoming months and teasing Geralt about how the witcher surely won’t miss his constant chatter. Geralt suddenly breaks under the weight of the only secret he’s kept from his _friend_.

“Gdybyś tylko wiedział, jak bardzo cię kocham.” _If only you knew how much I love you_ , he says under his breath, swallowing hard. His chest aches and his throat burns, and it’s only thanks to his very last shred of self-control that he doesn’t say it again in a language which Jaskier speaks.

Then, there comes Jaskier’s question, “Co ty powiedziałeś?” _What did you just say?_

Geralt whips around and stares at Jaskier with wide eyes. The bard appears equally shocked. There’s comprehension on his face and Geralt’s blood runs cold. He keeps looking at Jaskier soundlessly, helplessly, fighting for every breath as each inhale fills his lungs with fire that makes his eyes prickle.

“Jaskier, I –” he grinds out finally. “I’m... sorry, I –”

“Geralt,” Jaskier cuts in gently, “Don’t.”

He walks up to Geralt, standing so close that their bodies almost touch. Taking the witcher’s face into his hands, he goes on, and Geralt can’t look away from the warm blue of his eyes. “I told you that I’d learn,” he says with a smile so soft, so full of _affection_ that shouldn’t be there _,_ “and I did.”

“Wiedźminie.” _Witcher_ , Jaskier murmurs, “ _mój_ wiedźminie.” _My witcher._

It shouldn’t mean as much as it does - being called this name in this tongue - yet when Jaskier says it so tenderly, his voice turning the vowels and consonants into such beautiful sounds, it strikes Geralt to his very core. He _chokes_ and lays his palms on Jaskier nape, clinging desperately as he puts their foreheads together.

Jaskier laughs breathlessly and nudges his nose against Geralt’s. “Ja ciebie też kocham.” _I love you too_ , he whispers, “Całym sercem.” _With my whole heart_.

It means _so much_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, them confessing their love to each other in Polish hits _different_ when you're are a Polish person 😭😭
> 
> Comments are life, I'd really appreciate if you tossed one 💛💙


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning, Jaskier suspects that it's Geralt’s way of being as rude as possible. Why on earth act like that, he has no idea, but one thing is for certain: the rustling sounds leaving Geralt’s mouth, which Jaskier thinks are supposed to be words, are set to drive him insane.
> 
> In which Jaskier learns some secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is brought to you by blue_midnight's wonderful ideas: "i'd love to read more of this, the way jaskier learned? how they use it as their 'secret' language in risky situations (both connotations of the word if you know what i mean ;)) or maybe even geralt teaching jaskier more". This chapter focuses on the first part - how Jaskier learned (and of course it just had to get 2,5k words long lmao). Chapter 3 will cover the rest of their ideas in the 5+1 format (hopefully coming soon!). 
> 
> For now, hope you enjoy! 💕💕

At the beginning, Jaskier suspects that it's Geralt’s way of being as rude as possible. _Why_ on earth act like that, he has no idea, but one thing is for certain: the rustling sounds leaving Geralt’s mouth, which Jaskier thinks are supposed to be words, are set to drive him insane.

It must be some kind of language. Geralt uses it when talking to his horse a lot. Jaskier almost finds the behaviour endearing but then the witcher speaks in that tongue when answering many of his questions. Jaskier just wants to get them better acquainted but Geralt couldn’t care less about the offerings of friendship, apparently.

Even though the witcher can be a right bastard like that, one thing is clear from the very start: Jaskier can only wish to be half the man Geralt is, but the world thinks it’s Geralt who is less than human. Jaskier finds he can’t stand by and let it happen.

It’s a simple exchange. They both need each other to prove that they’re more than what everyone thinks they are. The transaction is uncomplicated: Geralt fights monsters for Jaskier to sing about, Jaskier softens the hearts and the minds. As time passes, however, it changes and becomes more complex - they share food, rooms and coin, start caring for each other in all the small but significant ways.

Five years pass and it’s a friendship in full bloom, but Geralt still often talks to him and snaps at him in that damned tongue, like he doesn’t think Jaskier worthy of knowing his thoughts. It’s never stopped angering him but at this point, Jaskier is also intrigued in what Geralt wants to hide and why the hell it seems to concern him so often. (A certain feeling that shall not be named blooms in his chest at the thought and he squashes it). 

Then there’s that one bath. Geralt looks at him as if he was the most fascinating puzzle in the world which, fair, Jaskier _is_ interesting if he does say so himself, but not _that_ much. It’s on that day that he decides to learn that bloody language, even if it’s the last thing he does.

Jaskier goes to Oxenfurt that winter and searches the vast library through and through. The librarians shoot him looks indicating their suspicion about him being a maniac but Jaskier is simply a man on a mission. In the middle of winter, his madness finally bears fruit – he finds an ancient book written in a language he has never seen. “Wiedźmiński bestiariusz” the title says. Inside, there’s a loose piece of parchment with the first few paragraphs of the book translated, including the title – “Witcher Bestiary”. The book is full of sketches of monsters and descriptions, the words containing several strange letters. Many passages aren’t readable anymore because they’ve faded with age but Jaskier treasures the book anyway. He spends the rest of the winter copying all the legible pages, indulging in life’s pleasures much less, which only fuels the rumours of his insanity. All the while, he hopes that this is the language Geralt has been using.

The answer comes surprisingly quickly in the surprising shape of another wolf witcher. They stumble upon each other in late spring in Redania. It’s such a funny coincidence that there’s no way Jaskier’s not going to make the best of it.

“See, master witcher,” Jaskier says as they drink ale together, “When I rummaged through my university’s library, I stumbled upon an interesting volume.” He forgets to mention the translated passages as he pulls out his copy of the book and lays it on the table in front of Lambert. The witcher’s eyes widen when they rest upon the title and Jaskier knows this is _it_. He grins and carries on, “It seems to be full of precious knowledge and wisdom, yet it’s written in a language I don’t understand. It concerns monsters, so I was hoping a witcher could assist me in decoding this tongue.”

Lambert says nothing for some time, only regarding Jaskier with suspicion. “Why would you want to learn it?” he questions.

“Call it academic curiosity.”

The witcher’s eyes narrow. Hadn’t Jaskier spent so much time with Geralt, he would certainly squirm under the hot, searching gaze.

“It’s not a secret language of your guild, is it?” he asks to break the tense silence.

“It’s not,” Lambert answers, “But no one really bothered before, is the thing. Dunno what to make of you.”

Jaskier sighs and decides to reveal the malice of his intentions because, from what little Geralt told him of his brothers, he knows that Lambert will appreciate it. “Listen,” he says as he leans in towards the red-haired witcher, “just imagine how it’ll freak Geralt out when he finds out.”

Lambert lets out a delighted laugh. “Fuck, I wanna be there when it happens.”

Jaskier can’t make any promises of the sort, so he says nothing to that. Instead, he asks, “Do we have a deal, then?”

“We’ll see.”

Lambert’s reserve didn’t make sense at that moment but Jaskier almost wishes he didn’t find out why the witcher was so cautious about his enthusiasm.

It turns out the language is a _demonic_ creation. Lambert starts explaining some basic words and phrases to him and it already makes Jaskier’s head spin – there are so many forms and conjugations that Jaskier’s task of achieving fluency in that damned tongue suddenly appears almost too daunting. Almost.

He still wants to see the look on Geralt’s bloody beautiful face.

Lambert lets Jaskier join him on the Path for a few weeks. Throughout that time, he teaches Jaskier a bit more, especially how to read in the language. The wonderful thing about it is that, once he knows all the rules of pronunciation, he can read _everything_ out loud. The dreadful thing is that the pronunciation itself is so tough and tongue-twisting that it may as well be a form of diabolical punishment inflicted upon Jaskier for all the transgressions he committed.

Lambert laughs when he voices his frustrations. “Przyzwyczaisz się.” _You’ll get used to it_ , the witcher answers, his voice producing the mad consonant clusters with ease.

“I doubt it,” Jaskier grumbles under his breath.

The two of them part ways as Jaskier pays for Lambert’s services with a song. Jaskier saw the wolf witcher take down a vampire in a truly spectacular manner, so it was no hardship. After Lambert leaves, Jaskier starts learning on his own. Whenever Geralt hunts, he reads out loud from his copy of the bestiary (and how Geralt never overhears it is truly beyond him. Melitele likes him calling upon her tits so frequently, it seems). He tries to decipher the words in the book using all knowledge he has, translating some more passages. He and Lambert also exchange letters but Jaskier fails at writing in the tongue miserably. The last one he wrote returns to him with a multitude of Lambert’s corrections and a short note from the witcher himself:

"Cały list do przepisania, skowroneczku." _The whole letter needs rewriting, little lark_.

Jaskier huffs at the nickname, ruffling his figurative feathers in indignation. Although a lark’s voice is beautiful, very much so, its plumage is too plain. Jaskier could _never_. He would be a blackbird at the very least. Or a siskin. A bullfinch, preferably. If Jaskier was honest, a peacock would best fit to describe his exterior, but the sounds peacocks make aren’t pleasant, so he would be willing to settle on some _colourful_ songbird.

Damn Lambert, in any case. The witcher knows far too well how to rile him up. It’s a bit unnerving.

"Skowronek to nie jak ja." _Lark doesn’t sound like me_ , Jaskier answers in the next letter.

"Rzeczywiście, tak ładnie nie śpiewasz." _True, your singing isn’t that pretty_ , Lambert writes back. 

Damn him indeed. Jaskier responds to that comment with a simple, efficient “fuck you”, to which Lambert replies “chciałbyś” _you wish_.

Jaskier can’t exactly deny this. He would certainly show his appreciation for Lambert’s fiery spirit if not for one little, _tiny_ problem. The problem is so minuscule that Jaskier does everything in his power not to think about it. He seeks out lovers constantly and falls into the Countess de Stael’s arms almost every winter. She wants his attention now, as it’s a puppy love no longer, but during his stay at her palace, someone else always catches his attention. She kicks him out the moment she finds out. And so their romance goes, rinse and repeat.

No matter whether Jaskier winters at the Countess’s court, Oxenfurt, or some other place, he always devotes much of his free time to search for any book containing the Witcher tongue, as Jaskier started calling it. There isn’t much anywhere, and Lambert’s letters are few and far in between. Jaskier can feel himself getting stagnant in his learning and he can’t afford it. Not now, after six years of gargantuan effort that he’s put in already. Not when Geralt sometimes says something to him in that quiet, warm voice, and he still doesn’t understand.

Jaskier seems to enjoy more of Melitele’s blessing than he really should because, just when he’s getting desperate, there’s a godsend dropped on his way on a lovely spring day.

Quite literally dropped, since that witcher falls from a tree Jaskier’s about to walk under as he’s on his way to find Geralt. There’s a cat medallion around the witcher’s neck, and his body is gravely injured. He’s unconscious as Jaskier takes the liberty to use his witcher potions to help him not die. After he finally opens his eyes the next day, he introduces himself as Aiden.

It takes Aiden two more days to stand back on his feet. Soon after he manages that, Jaskier makes him trip when he speaks in the Witcher tongue to him, and the poor Cat witcher actually falls to the ground when Jaskier mentions Lambert. Sensing some _story_ there, he sticks by Aiden’s side for a week or two. They make fast friends and promise to write to each other frequently.

Aiden’s letters are just what Jaskier needs to improve. The witcher is more expansive than Lambert and a touch flirty, which is _perfect_. As their correspondence goes on, Jaskier grows to like him only more and more. Not _that_ much, though; he’s still stuck in the merry old mess of admiration and friendly affection getting out of hand. At least he’s not the only one – the story that Aiden and Lambert share is there in the letters, between the lines, and Jaskier is clever enough to see it.

Jaskier and Aiden meet for a drink in Novigrad once. When they’re deep into their cups, they start whining about their predicament.

“Cholerne wilki.” _Damned wolves_ , Aiden grumbles.

“Cholerne wilki.” _Damned wolves_ , Jaskier agrees wholeheartedly.

Ten years of learning the Witcher tongue have passed when Jaskier finds Geralt fishing for a djin in the lake near Rinde. He’s known Geralt for sixteen years now, so it takes him exactly one moment to see through the sorry excuse of insomnia. Destiny can’t be trifled with like that, he knows, so he doesn’t let it happen.

When Jaskier sings his friend to sleep, Geralt wonders about deserving him, that silly witcher. As if it wasn’t _Jaskier_ who could only dream of deserving Geralt. As if Jaskier wasn’t a cheater, a homewrecker and a bastard who shouldn’t even deserve to _look_ into those warm, gold eyes that allow a peek into the heart of gold.

As they meet Yennefer, the chemistry between her and Geralt is so strong that Jaskier can almost see the sparkles fly. Jaskier holds his breath all throughout their stay in Rinde. After they leave and nothing happens, there’s no relief. Now the witcher and the sorceress can get together any time and Jaskier turns bitter at the ripe, sweet age of thirty-four.

He lets go of many things after that. The silly affair with the Countess, caring about what the educated think about his works. He lives, breathes and grows, at last, fuelled by the one thing that he’s driven by best – sheer, absolute spite. Jaskier’s learnt the Witcher tongue out of spite (among other motives that he refuses to think about), and out of spite he will survive now, no matter how much he worries about a purple-eyes sorceress being such a great match for the White Wolf that even _he_ wants to write a ballad about it.

Jaskier doesn’t ask, of course, and Geralt doesn’t say. They keep travelling together and Jaskier basks in the glory of knowing exactly what Geralt says about him when the witcher thinks he doesn’t understand. It’s wildly satisfying indeed but only up to a point – until the day Geralt calls him beautiful. Jaskier accepts the compliment with a smile, since it _is_ the truth after all, but he can’t trust his voice to answer. He tries to fight the idiotic hope blooming in his chest and blames the warmth in Geralt’s gaze on the firelight. He reminds himself that Geralt doesn’t see him that way because it’s only women that the witcher’s ever been interested in. Life goes on.

Then his world crashes around him as he hears the words about love leaving Geralt’s mouth. That is when he can’t hold it in anymore and his secret is out. Or both his secrets, really.

It’s so freeing that he’s heady. Or maybe the giddiness can be all on Geralt. Or perhaps on the fact that, when Jaskier bares his heart in the Witcher tongue, it touches the witcher’s heart to its very core. He can feel it, in the way Geralt clings to him, and he already knows he won’t find any words to describe it properly in any language he knows.

That's how he knows it's something worth living and loving for - it means too much for words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I'm so happy that I acquired Polish as my mother tongue. I'd literally rather die than have to learn that language from scratch in adulthood. Even French gives me trouble, and Polish so much wilder than that. Still, Polish really is wonderful - it has a certain depth to it that English just can't achieve, all the swearwords are a thing of beauty, and it has an _amazing_ ASMR quality (honestly, whispered Polish is the best thing ever). 
> 
> Because of that AMSR-pleasing quality, I'd love to be brave enough to share a podfic of this fic with you (I did record myself reading the first chapter) but I'm too chicken to share it, I'm so sorry ;-; I just hate my voice so much, the thought of sharing the recording makes me want to scream. Maybe one day, though!
> 
> Anyway, comments are life, I'd really appreciate if you tossed one 💙💛


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 times Geralt and Jaskier use the “secret” language and get away with it, and 1 time someone understands them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, the fic's rating goes up to mature because the following chapter contains: sexual content (in part 2.), descriptions of violence (part 3.), and a bit of heavier swearing (part 4.). There're also tons of feels, sweetness and some silliness ahead :>
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 🥰

**1.**

“We agreed on 300,” Geralt growls, exhaustion weighing down upon him more and more.

It has been a day since he killed the leshen. The damn thing had been _extremely_ unwilling to die and the walk back from the woods was miles long. He’s returned to town an hour ago only to find that the alderman wants to cheat him out of half the pay. The whole situation turns his temper rather foul.

Geralt’s irritation makes the alderman cower but he still stammers out, “I know, witcher, but I only have 150 now. Unforeseen circumstances had me spend the rest on important expenses.”

The lie is so blatant that Geralt doesn’t even have to look at Jaskier to know how much his bard restrains himself from rolling his eyes (at the very least). Jaskier, for his part, has to use all his willpower to stop himself from throttling the rotund, well-dressed man before them.

“Kłamie.” _He’s lying_ , Jaskier says. “Nieprzewidziane wydatki.” _Unforseen expenses_ , he parrots mockingly, his voice positively dripping with disdain. “Żebyś widział jego dom i rodzinę.” _You should see his house and family_ , the bard goes on, staring the man down, “Tyle złota dawno nie widziałem.” _I haven’t seen so much gold in a while_.

The alderman huffs, indignant. “I thought we’re in polite company, master bard,” he says, returning Jaskier’s glare with a defensive look. “Talking in a language other participants of the conversation don’t understand is definitely impolite.”

Jaskier smiles. It’s more of baring teeth. “Indeed,” he agrees, “This time, however, my bad manners were a gesture of goodwill, my _good sir_.”

The alderman frowns in confusion. Geralt has to fight down a gleeful, nasty grin that threatens to twist his lips – the man has _no idea_ what he’s in for.

“You see,” Jaskier carries on, his posture straight and confident, his voice lowered and so _biting,_ “I simply wanted to spare you the embarrassment of uncovering your greed.” The alderman gapes and the bard continues, “After all, does a man of such _well-guarded_ wealth truly not have 300 coins to spare, no matter the circumstances?” Jaskier makes a pause, which the alderman fails to fill, no matter how much his mouth works to form a retort. 

“What would the people of this town think,” Jaskier goes on, “if they were reminded of your greed, I wonder? A good song can anger them about it very well . Am I not wrong, my _good sir_?”

Heavy silence hangs in the air for only a moment. Then, the alderman hastens to answer, “Not wrong in any way, master bard. A song like that would be unfortunate indeed.”

They leave the alderman’s office with a sack of coin filled with much more money than it was agreed upon. Geralt is _weary_ , down to his very bones, and gratitude overwhelms him. He can’t help but catch Jaskier by the wrist as they’re about to walk into the town’s inn.

“So fierce,” he murmurs, brushing the back of his hand against his bard’s cheek.

Jaskier cherishes the touch, smiling warmly. “Only fitting for a companion of the White Wolf,” he replies.

“No one fits the role better than you,” Geralt answers, stepping so close to Jaskier that their proximity can be mistaken for nothing else than what it is.

Jaskier’s pupils dilate. “Gods above, Geralt,” he breathes out, “Don’t just _say_ things like that.”

The witcher kisses his bard right there and then, in bright daylight for all to see.

Much later, they lay together in bed, too content to say or do anything. The room is warm, the fire crackling merrily, and their stomachs are full. They laze in between the clean sheets after a bath and a round of love-making. 

“How did you know?” Geralt breaks the pleasant silence, just when they’re both close to dozing off.

“About what?” Jaskier mumbles drowsily.

“About how rich the alderman is.”

“Oh, I paid him a visit when you hunted,” Jaskier answers, all nonchalant, “I met one of his sons at the inn and, well. I happened to make some… _suggestions_. The lad graciously invited me to a family dinner. The temptation of a free performance given by Jaskier the bard is too strong, it appears, no matter how rarely guests are allowed to cross the threshold of their house.”

Geralt chuckles. “Fierce and clever.”

“Whatever you need,” Jaskier replies in a murmur, quiet and solemn.

Geralt’s chest swells with such warmth that there’s no air left in his lungs. Words fail him so he kisses Jaskier instead, again and again, until he’s sure that his bard understands what he's unable to say.

Some time passes before Jaskier is able to form a coherent sentence. When he does, he remarks, “I could be a spy.”

Geralt lets out a small laugh. “To bądź szpiegiem.” _Then be a spy_.

Jaskier grins at him in that feral way, which Geralt knows bodes trouble. “Dla ciebie? Chętnie.” _For you? Gladly_.

**2.**

Jaskier and Geralt are both pleasantly tipsy. They’ve drunk the right amount of moonshine to get to that point - not much of the alcohol was needed, even for Geralt, as it’s _devilishly_ strong - and now enjoy the festival. Or rather, _would_ enjoy, if not for one thing.

“Belletyn festival, my supple ass,” Jaskier mutters under his breath, “More like a festival of simpering.”

Geralt almost snorts into his drink. Jaskier’s grouchy demeanour would be endearing on a normal day but in his current state, the witcher finds it hilarious. He laughs at Jaskier’s grumpy frown as the bard keeps grumbling about some people not taking a hint.

Jaskier enjoys compliments and attention from adoring fans _a lot_ , but he’s very recently discovered that even he has his limits. It turns out that _all_ the maidens (and few bachelors) of the town competing to catch his eye is what crosses the line. Ever since the day’s celebrations began, seemingly everyone wants to talk to Jaskier and pay him a cheap compliment. As a result, the bard barely has had a moment to spend by his witcher’s side. Geralt was cornered by admirers at some point as well but he, at least, had the luxury of being his blunt, silent self. Most people quickly left him alone.

Unfortunately, there’s a handful of women who aren’t put off by Geralt’s dismissal and Jaskier’s lack of reciprocation. Some of them actually seem interested in _both_ the White Wolf and his bard. Not that Jaskier and Geralt would reject such an opportunity altogether. They’ve been committed to each other for almost a year now and, however satisfying their sex life is (which it is, _definitely_ ), they do miss the pleasure of bedding a woman once in a while. There’s an easy enough solution to that - sometimes a lady, or two ladies, sleeps with them with or without charge. Tonight, however, Geralt and Jaskier aren’t in the mood for sharing. 

Tonight, they can’t get their eyes off each other. Torches and a large bonfire light up the town square, and the White Wolf and Jaskier the bard are transfixed by the sight of one another as flickering firelight illuminates their faces. The spring air is warm and fresh, the people all around them are a flurry of motion, music and merriment. The crowd surrounds them but, for the first time this evening, they’re left alone. Tension of the sweetest kind starts brewing between them.

“Wiesz co bym zrobił, gdybyśmy byli sami?” _You know what I’d do if we were alone?_ Jaskier asks. Several people nearby take note of a foreign language being spoken and observe them curiously but Jaskier goes on, unwavering, “Rozebrałbym cię bardzo, _bardzo_ powoli, całując bez przerwy.” _I’d undress you very, **very** slowly, kissing you all the while._ The bard’s voice is now husky and seductive. Geralt inhales sharply, arousal pooling low in his abdomen.

There’s something exhilarating about saying such things with so many people watching. Jaskier knows this and continues, loud and clear, “Nie mógłbyś dotykać siebie ani mnie.“ _You wouldn’t be allowed to touch yourself or me._ Geralt’s breath hitches and Jaskier smirks. “Mógłbyś tylko patrzeć jak zdejmuję ubrania.” _You could only watch as I take off my clothes._ Jaskier’s hand starts moving down Geralt’s chest, unrushed, torturous, sending thrills of anticipation through the witcher’s body. The bard bits down at his lower lip and peers at Geralt with hooded eyes. “Musiałbyś wytrzymać kiedy robię ci dobrze ustami.” _You’d have to take it as I pleasure you with my mouth,_ Jaskier rasps, and the sound nearly drives the witcher mad. “Tak bardzo chcę usłyszeć twoje głośne jęki.” _I want to hear you loud moans so badly._

That is when Geralt can’t bear it anymore. “ _Jaskier_ ,” he grits out, tugging the bard harshly towards him so that there isn’t an inch of space left between their bodies. Jaskier lets out a squeak of protest at the rough treatment but Geralt silences him with a sharp nip at the tip of his ear. Then, the witcher takes his revenge - he growls into Jaskier’s ear the one sentence that he knows affects his bard the most, “Jesteś _mój_.” _You’re **mine**_.

Jaskier shudders in his arms. “Tylko twój.” _Only yours_ , he replies breathily.

“You have no idea what I’m about to do to you,” Geralt threatens as he already drags Jaskier towards the closest dark alley he can spot.

“Are you going to demonstrate,” Jaskier answers cheekily, with the gall only he can muster, “or just keep talking?”

Geralt devotes the next hour for putting him in place.

**3.**

It’s hard to determine which one of them is a bigger magnet for trouble. Geralt would argue that it’s Jaskier while Jaskier would insist that it’s the other way around. Regardless of who’s right, the fact that Geralt and Jaskier together scarcely enjoy a moment of peace is one of the truths of the universe. Although all the mess they get themselves into keeps their life interesting, there are some days (many of them, in fact) when they do not appreciate all the _excitement_.

This is one of those days. The witcher and the bard came across a dozen bandits as they travelled a forest road. The thugs decided to attack them. It’s nothing they haven’t been through before and it’s also _bad_. Geralt doesn’t want to kill any of them, doesn’t even try, but that can’t be said about their attackers – they seem almost fixated on murdering the witcher. Jaskier manages to take down two of them but his third opponent rips Jaskier’s dagger out of his hand and holds him from behind in a tight grip, putting Jaskier’s own blade against his Adam’s apple.

Just when Jaskier expects to have his throat sliced open, there’s Geralt’s shout, “Nadepnij mu na stopę!” _Step on his foot!_

Jaskier is momentarily struck dumb by the ingenuity of this idea but then shakes himself and does what Geralt told him to with all the strength he can muster. The bandit cries in pain and loosens his grip, which Jaskier uses to his advantage. The bard frees himself but the man tries to catch him again, so Jaskier elbows him in the stomach. The strike makes the thug cringe, and Jaskier turns around to kick him in the crotch. As the bandit curls up in pain, Jaskier grits his teeth, hard, and bashes the opponent’s head against his knee.

Bile rises up in Jaskier’s throat, so he directs his attention to Geralt in order not to vomit. The witcher knocked out four bandits but the remaining five attack him viciously, their blades aiming for Geralt’s body from all sides. One of them swings their sword and makes a deep cut on Geralt’s cheek.

Absolute, visceral _horror_ turns Jaskier into a stature as he watches his worst nightmare unfold. Time slows down and Jaskier sees it with cruel clarity – one of the thugs aims to stab Geralt through the neck and misses only barely. His everything is slipping right through his fingers and Jaskier yells the witcher’s name, blinded with fear. His mouth works on its own accord as he screams at the top of his lungs, “Za tobą, unik w lewo!” _Behind you, duck to the left!_

Geralt listens to him without a beat and a blow to the witcher’s head misses its target. The foreign words confuse the thugs for a second. The witcher takes advantage of it, kicking one of the bandits down.

“Ma za swoje!” _Serves him right!_ Jaskier cries in triumph, distracting Geralt’s attackers even further.

“Uwaga na głowę.” _Watch your head_ is all the warning Geralt gives before he casts Aard, sending a shockwave through the air.

The spell sends everyone flying a few feet away from the witcher. Jaskier lands on the ground flat on his back. All the air is knocked out of his lungs violently and for a moment, he just lays there, fighting for breath. As he comes to, he gets up and looks around. Geralt’s in the middle of finishing off the last of the bandits, so a moment later, Jaskier sees twelve unmoving bodies. He starts trembling.

Jaskier isn’t brave. Even though he can be easily provoked and doesn’t shy away from a fight, fear affects him greatly whenever something threatens him and the ones he loves. It hasn’t got better with time and at this point, Jaskier suspects it never will. All the violence he witnessed and committed hasn’t hardened him. Geralt thinks it to be true bravery that he faces danger despite his fear but Jaskier can’t help viewing his sensitivity as a weakness.

The witcher walks up to his bard and takes him into his arms. Jaskier hides his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck, careless of the blood, and gradually begins to calm down.

“Już po wszystkim.” _It’s done_ , Geralt whispers gently. The sound of it is so comforting that it almost makes Jaskier sleepy, like a hushed lullaby.

“I could’ve lost you,” the bard mumbles, “It was so close–”

“You won’t lose me,” Geralt cuts in.

“You can’t promise that.”

“You won’t lose me,” Geralt repeats, with utmost conviction.

Jaskier lets out a shaky breath and gives a tiny nod. “Okay.”

They’re okay. Somedays, they’re just okay. Sometimes, it’s more than enough.

**4.**

One of the things about Geralt that Jaskier treasures is that, once the witcher opens up, he’s very playful. What Jaskier hates about it, though, is that Geralt can be an absolute _bastard_ while being playful. 

Like now, for example. The cold water of the lake is a blessed respite from the merciless summer heat but some adjustment to the water’s temperature is still needed. Geralt, who walked into the lake before everyone else to make sure it’s clear of monsters, doesn’t seem to think so. The moment the bard followed him into the lake, the witcher splashed water all over him.

Jaskier sputters, brushing the water from his face. “Kurwa, Geralt!” _Fuck, Geralt!_ he exclaims, careful not to swear in a language known to their travel companions, who are bathing a short distance away.

Geralt and Jaskier stumbled upon them yesterday, in the middle of nowhere, as they were on their way towards Temeria. It’s a stranded elven family of six: a grandmother, two parents and three small children. Geralt offered to escort them to safety for free. During their travel, Jaskier sang songs for the little ones and played with them a lot. When the two youngest ones got tired after that, Geralt sat them atop Roach.

Needless to say, the White Wolf and his bard have been gazing at each other in a manner disgustingly adoring _a lot_ in the past two days.

Now, however, Geralt only grins widely at Jaskier’s annoyance, which is more than enough to provoke the bard. He splashes water at Geralt back, admittedly not as spectacularly as the witcher did it. Geralt just stands there, the picture of unimpressed, so Jaskier does it again, then again and again, until the witcher finally reacts and responds in kind.

What ensues is a mess of broad smiles, giggles and chuckles, and water everywhere. Amidst all the splashing, Geralt tries to catch Jaskier but the bard wisely stays out of his witcher’s reach. When Geralt gets too close at one point, Jaskier makes him trip underwater and fall into the lake face-first.

As Geralt stands back up, he growls, “Ty jebany...!” _You fucking–!_

Jaskier laughs in delight, which turns out to be a mistake. With inhuman speed, Geralt grabs his bard and pulls him to himself. Jaskier lets out a screech of protest but it’s cut off abruptly because the witcher dunks his head below the surface.

After Jaskier manages to get up and cough out all the water in his lungs, he asks Geralt with a glare, “How do I say ‘you motherfucker’ in the Witcher tongue?”

Geralt actually launches into the answer, “You can say ‘ty sukinsinie’ or ‘ty skurwielu’, both are very insulting but the latter is really strong...” He trails off seeing Jaskier’s mad grin. Finally realising what Jaskier meant, he narrows his eyes dangerously.

The bard has no chance to escape the witcher’s wrath. The fight continues, and the cursing does too. The Witcher tongue offers a staggering multitude of swear-words, Jaskier found out. Geralt taught him a lot of such words (together with other instances of vocabulary he would never find in books) but Jaskier still doesn’t have a full grasp on them. Geralt provides him with many opportunities to practice, though.

When the witcher and his bard start tiring of their fight, the water duel ends in Jaskier wrapping himself around Geralt, piggyback. “Yield, O’ mighty White Wolf!” he cries.

The White Wolf only grunts.

“Victory!” Jaskier proclaims, “Tis I, Jaskier the bard, the first of his name, who defeated the most powerful–”

Geralt dives, taking them both underwater. When they break the surface a moment later, booming laughter greets them. They both panic but then realise that they’re chest-deep in the water, so all the bits of their bare bodies that shouldn’t be seen by an audience remain hidden.

The elven family stands at the shore, already washed and clothed. They seem to have been watching the spectacle Geralt and Jaskier made of themselves and are now chuckling away.

“I did win!” Jaskier says to them, still plastered to Geralt’s back.

Geralt plunges in again.

**5.**

From the corner of the tavern most covered in shadow, to which Geralt retreated at some point during the evening when the surroundings became too much, the witcher’s yellow eyes watch as Jaskier bows to the applause together with Callonetta. Their performance was spectacular, so much so that Geralt was almost surprised that there was no magic involved. Their discussion about writing and literature beforehand, which Geralt witnessed as he sat with the two bards before they sang for the patrons, was quite the same; like a gripping match of wit and wisdom between equals who are far above everyone else.

Now, as they receive a standing ovation and Jaskier takes Priscilla’s hand to help her step down from the stage, Geralt can’t tear his eyes away from his bard. Jaskier captivates him like this – tired, a bit sweaty, and positively radiating joy and pride. He’s happiness personified, and no thanks to Geralt.

His thoughts take a turn towards a dark path, as awful, tedious and well-known to him as the Path that he walks every day. He takes a gulp of his ale and decides to leave that gloomy place but it’s then that Jaskier appears by the table, Callonetta nowhere in sight.

The bard plops down on the bench next to Geralt in a dramatic fashion, then leans his whole body against the witcher’s side. “Melitele’s ample bosom, what a night!” he exclaims dreamily.

Geralt only hums in response. The short, quiet sound is enough to earn him a sharp look from the bard. They’ve known each other for twenty years now and Jaskier can read him like an open book, which turns his mood even more sullen. He hates it sometimes.

Some days, there are moments like this, when succumbing to anger is like sinking into familiarity, satisfying in a twisted way. Most days, he’s resigned to his fate. Sometimes, he just _hates_. Hates what he is and what he isn’t, how little he can give and how much he can’t, hates that there’s no way out of this.

Jaskier steals a sip from Geralt’s mug and waits patiently. The cheerfulness from mere seconds ago is gone, replaced by a little frown of worry, and this is what Geralt hates the most – how his darkness is able to dim Jaskier’s light.

The witcher steels himself, gritting his teeth, and forces the words out, “Co ja ci mogę dać?” _What can I offer you?_

“O czym ty mówisz?” _What are you talking about?_ Jaskier demands.

There are people sitting nearby, walking past their table, but they can’t _listen_ to what they hear. Geralt admires his bard, how his hair sticks to his forehead and falls into his bright eyes, and can’t wrap his head around the fact that Jaskier – the most famous troubadour in the Northern Kingdoms – is _his_.

“Jesteś uczonym.” _You’re a scholar_ , the witcher says, “Pewnie nudzisz się przy mnie.” Y _ou must get bored around me_.

"Geralt –"

"Nie zapewnię ci intelektualnej rozmowy.” _I can’t offer an intellectual conversation_ , he goes on because he can’t stop now, “Ani wciągającej dyskusji o poezji _.” Or an interesting discussion about poetry._

He wants to continue but such a strange sound leaves Jaskier’s mouth that it throws him off track. It’s a mixture of an incredulous, almost manic laugh, an angry growl and a noise of frustration. Jaskier’s jaw is clenched and his hands twitch. Geralt can see how the bard fights to take his emotions under control and he gets wholly overtaken by the urge to leave. Jaskier lays a hand on his forearm, holding him in place.

Jaskier _sees_ him, all too well, when he looks at him. His blue, piercing gaze almost leaves Geralt out of breath as he answers, “ _Nigdy_ nie nudziłem się przy tobie.” _I’ve **never** been bored around you._

Jaskier sounds sincere in such a weary manner that Geralt feels silly. They’ve had this conversation before. Every time, Geralt wants to believe Jaskier’s promises so badly that he stops himself from it. This whole problem is too familiar, in the twisted way, and the witcher shifts his attention away. The tavern is full and the people are loud. There’s laughter, gossip, some heated argument and Priscilla’s voice is in there too, but then Jaskier cradles his face in his hands and everything becomes background noise.

“Uwierz mi, proszę.” _Please believe me_ , Jaskier says, nearly pleading. Geralt doesn’t dare look at him but he puts his palms around his bard's wrists, clinging, letting the touch ground him. Jaskier lets out a sigh and goes on, “Ciągle uczysz mnie czegoś nowego.” _You teach me new things every day_. “Jesteś bystry i masz cięty język.” _You’re sharp and have a ready tongue_. “Uwielbiam to w tobie, nawet jeśli wykorzystujesz to przeciwko mnie” _I love that about you_ , _even if you use it against me,_ Jaskier chuckles. Geralr chuckles too. As he finally risks a glance into Jaskier’s eyes, he sees warm summer sky.

The reassurances slowly start sinking in, just a tad, like sunlight on his skin.

Then, there are whispered words between them, about what they want and what they think they deserve. Such a heartfelt conversation is held in a tavern full of people who completely ignore the White Wolf and his bard but Geralt and Jaskier wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s not perfect but it’s theirs. Only theirs.

(Until it isn’t).

**+1**

Jaskier is thirty-nine when he winters at Kaer Morhen for the first time. He turned bitter five years ago and it’s been two years since Geralt’s made life sweet again. Unrest starts growing on the Continent, the Northern Kingdoms turning their gazes southwards to Niflgaard with varying degrees of anxiety, but Jaskier and Geralt haven’t talked about it yet. They have discussed Destiny and abandoned child surprises before but without urgency. That _will_ come, rather soon. Just not yet.

For now, they enjoy the peace while it lasts.

Showing him Kaer Morhen is the ultimate act of trust, he knows. After Jaskier and Geralt leave the witcher keep come spring, Yennefer or Triss will meet them immediately to wipe out all the memories Jaskier has of how to get there, and even of Kaer Morhen’s surroundings. He understands that completely and feels as protective of the place as the witchers themselves but _sincerely_ hopes that it will be Triss who gets to nose about in his mind. He’s not ready to meet Yennefer after their last adventure. Bargaining with water nymphs was _a ride_.

Ever since Geralt and Jaskier made friends with the purple-eyes sorceress in Rinde, Yennefer has been a whirlwind appearing in their lives at the most unexpected times. She shows up to ask for a favour, which usually involves getting some rare magical ingredient that she needs for whatever it is that mages work on. At this point, there’s a litany of mutual favours that she shares with Geralt. Jaskier started writing a ridiculous ballad in his head to keep track of who owes what to whom.

In short, Yennefer means magical shenanigans (plus convincing her to talk a bit more about that elixir of eternal youth which she mentioned in passing once, just so casually right before portalling away) and Jaskier is _not ready_.

It better be Triss.

At least there’re many moments from the _inside_ Kaer Morhen that he’ll be allowed to keep and treasure. Like now. he’s in the stables and stands at the entrance of Roach’s stall and watches Geralt tend to his horse. The witcher talks to the mare quietly, not acknowledging Jaskier’s presence. The bard knows he’s smiling like a fool but there’s nothing he can do about it, not when the affection he holds for the man in front of him nearly makes his chest burst.

Jaskier thinks to himself that this Roach deserves an award for putting up with their bullshit for the past two decades.

When Geralt is done with taking care of her, he finally pays attention to Jaskier. The witcher walks up to him, the sheer size of him making Jaskier feel as if Geralt was towering over him even though their height difference is negligible. There’s a little, precious smile on Geralt’s face and when his eyes meet Jaskier’s, his gaze is almost scorching.

The searing heat would be unbearable but Jaskier knows what it means, and it’s lifting. He’s a bit giddy, close to floating in the air. If he was a songbird, he would take to the skies and fly towards the Sun, to Geralt’s warmth, until his wings give out. He would sing for the Sun until he had no voice left in him. He will. Geralt is such a _good_ man, for all his flaws, his dangerous appearance and abilities, and Jaskier will never be done talking about it.

“Mój słodki, łagodny wilk.” _My sweet, gentle wolf_ , he says quietly, unable to keep the adoration from his voice.

Geralt grunts but doesn’t really protest the endearment, a shy quirk on his lips. Jaskier giggles and pecks him on the cheek. The witcher let out a low, pleased rumble, and the bard just has to kiss him again–

A howl of laughter snaps them back to reality.

Lambert chortles from the entrance to the stables. Eskel stands there too but he, at least, laughs with much less malice.

“Geralt, słodki, łagodny wilk, o kurwa!” _Geralt, a sweet, gentle wolf, oh fuck!_ Lambert wheezes out.

The red-haired witcher keeps cackling, looking like a nastily delighted child, and Geralt appears ready to kill him in an instant. Jaskier runs out of patience to put up with the ridicule soon after him.

“Aiden też cię pewnie tak nazywa.” _I bet Aiden calls you that too_ , the bard replies, annoyed.

Three witcher voices collectively screech, “ _Co?!_ ” **_What?!_**

Jaskier doesn’t even know if it’s true. The only thing he’s sure of, which he deducted from his continuing correspondence with the Cat and the Wolf, is that the two aren’t pining for each other like they used to.

Geralt’s and Lambert’s expressions switch – now it’s the former’s turn to be gleeful, while the latter looks murderous. Eskel remains immensely amused, with an added dash of shell-shocked.

“Lambert!” Eskel chokes out, “Ty i _Aiden_?!” _You and **Aiden**?!_

A fight of witcher proportions ensues. There’re shouted accusations, threats, name-calling and wrestling as Lambert tries to both dodge his brother’s questions (and fists) and throttle Jaskier. Geralt and Eskel don’t allow either to happen.

Jaskier only observes the chaos unfold without an ounce of guilt. After all, a mess like this is bound to happen when one secret too much comes to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't have done this without at least one "kurwa" :DD 
> 
> This was my first time writing a 5+1 fic and I had so much fun! I hope you liked it too, at least more or less. 
> 
> Comments are writer food, I'd really appreciate if you tossed some 💙💛❤️


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